


grace of god

by caesarions



Series: a human being can survive almost anything [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Punic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarions/pseuds/caesarions
Summary: The Second Punic War goes on quite long—perhaps too long. But the best time for sharing your deepest secrets is always during a battle, even if that secret is your hidden identity as a nation.Direct sequel to 'god sent'.





	grace of god

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: the meaning of the name 'hannibal' in punic. i'm tryna follow a theme. guess who's next
> 
> NAMES:
> 
> carthage - anysus barca (lost to history, lightning)
> 
> etruria - aranth repesuna (prince, lost to history)
> 
> rome - lucius marius priscus romulus (shining; of mars or masculine; ancient; the mythical founder, 'mr. rome')

**212 BC,** **Herdonia, Apulia**

* * *

 “I just get a little antsy, you know?” Mago scanned the area as he held the tent flap open. Anysus could feel only very light casualties. The Romans had not even realized Hannibal was in Herdonia. “I know citizen forces are a little weird and mostly officials so no one expects anything of me, but I don't want anyone to hate me because I’m not fighting.”

“I understand,” came Anysus’ reply.

He did not. Why did all humans want to throw away their lives so badly? Since they were winning, it was not a lost cause, but it was not a noble way to die. There _were_ no noble ways to die. Even semi-immortal, the nation would know—he’d had a few brushes with death himself, and after the debacle of the first war, Anysus had taken death into consideration. But that would have been the wrong decision, since they were now on victory’s heels. Death was a folly. It was as worthless as dust to him. Death took the wrong people and left the unrighteous wretches living. Some humans feared death, and some gave it not a moment’s thought. Anysus’ philosophy was left dangling precariously in the middle like a spider fallen from its own web.

And they were winning, but Anysus did not feel like it.

He always insisted Mago did not fight. No one understood, not even Mago. Since the battle was raging near, occurring on the grassy plains right outside camp, this time had been his hardest sell. But he had confessed his identity as nation to Mago one midnight after a nightmare so horrible that he had sought Mago out. It was inevitable that nationhood would come up someday during Anysus' crazed venting. Ever since then, Anysus could convince Mago to stay back with him if he promised to explain more about his mysterious existence.

Sharing had been oddly therapeutic. 

“It’s nice seeing a lot of different places,” Mago added softly. Anysus noticed the man glancing back at him with a small frown, full of worry. He always faulted humans for their need to lighten the mood, but, on the other hand, he was not the easiest person to talk to.

Sucking his teeth, Mago backpedaled after a moment. “Though, I guess I could have seen just as much as a merchant. I always thought it was boring, though.”

His chin resting on his steepled hands, Anysus had to smile then. “If _that’s_ boring, then how will you survive being _suffete_?” It was hard to imagine being chief of the government was all that different from conning people into buying fake lapis lazuli they didn't want or need.

The stocky man laughed kindly, finally sitting across from Anysus and grabbing his tea. The man was younger than the Barcids, but not as young as some of the sellswords. His dark raven hair and beard would need a good trim if he wanted to be a respectable politician, but Anysus imagined he himself looked much the same. Mago’s plain face was also too trusting, but if applied correctly, it could be used to charm others instead of used against him.

“I hope I can manage. If I even get there,” he added, glancing to the ground. The human chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Maybe I should rename myself, hm? The Magonid dynasty is over, and Hannibal’s younger brother named Mago never gets the credit he deserves.”

“I've tried that. It doesn't work,” Anysus interjected gruffly, but with a kindness that was rare served. Thinking of another Mago, his voice softened further before adding, “Besides, Mago is a good name.”

But the ending had a silent dismissal—Anysus was staring into his tea, a color very similar to the hull of a ship shining in the midday sun off the coast of Alalia. If interviewed, Anysus might even answer that the battle was the highest point of his life, the happiest moment of his life. This other Mago was responsible for Carthage's best decision, allying with the Etruscans to battle the Greeks. There was nothing better than finally defeating a common enemy, Hydra-like in their resilience, with the love of Anysus' life.

That made it quite awkward that Hannibal insisted on teaming up with Greeks now. They had helped in capturing Tarentum two years ago, but just for their past malicious treatment of the Etruscans, they had not gained favor in Anysus' eyes.

“At least I’ve got one vote,” Mago jested. Rudely interrupting his reverie about his favorite alliance, Anysus remembered the Italian isles would be somewhere Mago had not seen. Bitterly, he had to add, Mago most likely never would. Even if they _did_ win, Rome probably would not be wiped off the map, though Anysus would chop off both of his arms to make it so. He would even lose his sight to be rid of the pest; at least then he would never see Romulus' wicked grin. Romulus would fight tooth and nail to keep the islands; he could damn well have them, since he’d most likely turned Anysus’ Sicilian villa into a brothel.

Fond memories soiled, he moved on in the conversation, laughing politely. “Just make your partner is not also called Mago.” He sighed audibly. “Their names have been too similar too many times. I could barely even remember a single king. Imagine my horror when we decided on two ruling _suffetes_.”

“Really?” Mago sounded surprised. “I thought they were all really important. They seem like people worth remembering.”

Anysus only shrugged. He had a stellar memory, it was true, but centuries and centuries erased the individual people's names in the sand. There were just too many of them. He would likely forget all these generals as well, Hannibal included, in a few more centuries. However, Mago didn't need to hear a detailed speech on a nation's concept on time. “Not with Carthaginian nomenclature, they’re not.”

His voice was flat, but Mago bought the joke graciously. Courtesy and ignoring the right things were some of his strong suits, which would get the man far in politics. Anysus told him as much, and Mago only waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh…” he started out, flushing red. “I wouldn't say that. And this war has to go on for so long so that when I get back to Carthage, I’m old enough in their eyes to do anything.”

Anysus sipped his tea and set it down. “Younger men have accomplished much. Hamilcar was 28 when he first was given Sicily.”

“I hope you're right,” Mago sighed.

 _He could do with some confidence_ , Anysus thought to himself.

“What did you mean when you said you've changed names?” Mago asked, continuing the conversation before Anysus could say anything more. “Did you use to be a Hanno?”

“No, thankfully,” Anysus huffed. No Punic names were particularly bad, but he had chosen a name not aligned with any god or meaning because, as a representative, it was kind of useless, calling upon false blessings and hope. He _was_ the god. “My first name has never changed. Just the rest of it when I have to align myself with new dynasties. That is why I am a Barca now." His fingernails pointedly tapped the table. "Or change it, like when someone stupid tries to overthrow the government and reinstate the monarchy.”

Mago chuckled, leaning an elbow on the table. “Bomilcar! My grandfather was alive to witness that one. I don't think you'd know him—he didn't do anything important. Neither did my father. What's your father’s name? Or, uh, do nation-kinds have one…?”

“Azmelqart. The city of Tyre,” Anysus answered plainly. It was difficult to explain the exact science when they themselves did not know it, either. “No one is _related_ … You choose your own family based on people and culture. They established Carthage as a colony, as you know.”

Mago nodded, thoroughly interested. “I've heard the story. Who else do you consider family? The other Tyrian colonies? All Phoenicians? How many nations are there?”

Grimacing, Anysus shrugged. “The homeland isn't that important anymore.” It was unlikely Mago had even ever set eyes on the Levant. “Those cities chose their most important colonies as _children_ of some sort. Technically they all are, but it could be revoked or only gained later in life. It’s only business. Aranth—uh, Etruria, liked considering all of the other Italians as siblings, despite all coming from different backgrounds." If only Aranth's chariatible nature had not led him to raise Romulus as a younger brother. "It depends.”

Mago smiled dashingly. “That doesn't answer my question.”

Ah, political hounding, recognizing when people were dodging your questions. Mago was a safer bet than he even realized. “Right. Utica is important and also located in North Africa, so she's like an older sister.” Not to say their relationship wasn't strained at the moment. Or, maybe it always had been. “The rest… I mostly forget about, really, even if they are Tyrian. So, cousins at best. And none of my colonies were substantial enough to be my children, even if I love children.”

“Do all nations like children?” Mago was leaning forward in a childlike awe himself.

It was Anysus’s turn to chuckle as he looked at Mago quizzically. “I don't know. Romulus probably spits on children.”

Mago washed down a jovial laugh with a swig of tea. “Those Romans! We’ve been beating them bloody, that’s for sure.”

Anysus wanted to feel excited, but he could not. He held every right to be excited, juvenile-giddy even, but he was tired. The premature celebrations late at night, sloshing wine around the campfire, only served to sicken him. There was only room for one puerile nation in the Mediterranean, and if Romulus insisted on playing the fool, it was a gods-granted opportunity that was a shame to pass up.

All he could manage to give Mago was a tiny tweak of his mouth in agreement. The Carthaginians in the army were much more optimistic than their traveling Carthaginian god.

Mago stared at Anysus for a long time. His mouth was drawn into a thin line as his brows furled like overly concerned caterpillars. “Does it get lonely? Being a nation.”

Anysus only looked back at him, eyes glazed with apathy. He eventually wavered as his eyes fell to look into his tea. “It didn't use to be.”

It took a minute or two for Anysus to look back up, and Mago was only staring at him. It was sometimes hard to read his expressions since his face was so nondescript, but Anysus wished that was also the case for him. Instead, his eyes gave him away every single time. Where his eyes were two drowning, copper pools, Mago’s were much smaller—small granite flints, but kind. He finally gave an encouraging smile.

“Well, this victory can mean a lot to you then,” Mago offered with a wave of his hand.

“It would,” Anysus answered. He hesitated to say _it will_. "It could."

There was nothing Anysus could say after that—since the main topic of the conservation was still family, Anysus was content to only listen about Mago’s family. He had naught to say about his own, and even less he wanted to burden sanguine Mago with. Representing an empire and focusing on the sea, Anysus had never been particularly close to his people. If he was gone long enough to forget the layout of his own home, then there was no way he could get invested in his human neighbors. But, after six hundred years of existence, here he was. He listened to Mago with a furious and full-fledged interest in the subject that reminded him of his youth. Not even the fatalistic Anysus was comparing Mago's extensive account and ruminating on the ways his own younger years could have been happier. It was futile; tragedy was the way of the nation.

He was happy Mago was happy. He was happy humans were happy. 

Mago was in the middle of his favorite memory of his wife when a telltale patter started beating on the roof of the tent. The familiar sound of water, but extremely unfamiliar, as it was much different from the crashing sea.

He stopped mid sentence and made a questioning face. “Does it always rain here in this season?”

Anysus shrugged. “I don't know. I don't live here.” They were much further south than he cared to visit—Greece’s previous holdings instead of the dominion of the Etruscan League.

Mago found something funny in that and managed to guffaw. “Well, I'm glad. You _are_ Carthage.”

Without any clear initiative, the pair moved to the tent flap to hold it open and observe the drizzle. It cast the whole camp in a somber gray fog, blurring the shapes and driving the few men that remained into their tents once more. The gray was tinged with a green haze from the grass and trees, causing the hills’ borders to float above where they belonged and melt into the sky. In Italy, Anysus had no connection to the terrain, so he had no idea of it was raining over the raging battle as well or not.

“This is perfect weather for enemies to sneak up on the camp,” Anysus mused into the dense gloom.

“Really?” Mago asked. “I just thought it was pretty.”

Despite himself and despite his situation, Anysus managed to break into a grin out of amusement. He felt as tired and splintered as an old ship washed ashore, but his shoulders stopped sagging for a millisecond. “Well, it is that, too.”

Mago decided it was best to run out into the rain and spin around. Anysus followed, once without any care for his precious wardrobe. However, he walked slowly and stopped a few paces away from Mago, the first drop hitting him square on the nose, the subsequent spray temporarily blinding him.

He almost wanted to laugh.

It rained the night after he found the sarcophagus Aranth had left, after Aranth had secretly carved it into his and Anysus' image for years. Intertwined lovers, as the sensitive Etruscans preferred for their sarcophagi. It continued into the morning, so Anysus was chilled to the bone as he rode away from it, unable to take it with him and unwilling to have questions asked, afraid of breaking down again after piecing himself together very delicately. In his most cowardly move, Anysus couldn't even bring himself to bury it. Aranth’s ghost was the rain and settled into his frame, chilled winter seawater, but extremely comforting at the same time.

It was Hannibal's fault for taking the route he did, the one through Etruscan burial grounds. Once this war was over, Anysus would return for the sarcophagus.

It didn't even matter if the war was won.

“Do you think it’s the Romans crying?” Mago jested, pushing wet bangs out of his eyes, only to have them fall down again. “I can hear them now!”

Anysus’s own hair was once too short to fall into his face, but he had let it go recently. He _had_ to. None of the hairy Gauls they’d gained as allies were barbers as well.

He looked straight up into the sky, observing the ripple of linen clouds that hung loosely above them, like cloth sloppily hung around tree branches. Even if it was a layer of clouds, Anysus would have welcomed all the blankets he could get. Anysus opened his palm to the sky and let a few drops fall on it, smiling sadly before letting his face settle into a deep frown.

“Well, someone is, at least."


End file.
